


Worth It

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Faked Deaths, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Melancholy, Mentions Of Other Holmes Characters, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sacrifice, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: They have started a new life, far away from England as they didn't see any choice. But are the sacrifices too big after all?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yukoyaoista](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukoyaoista/gifts).



> I'm glad I found at least one more Holmescest fic inside of me. With special thanks to Elsa, who indirectly inspired it, and my MezzaMorta who always supports me.

“You think you can help me, Mr Willis?”

The tall man with the very short black hair and the horn-rimmed spectacles nods. “Not a problem. It's an easy case.” His voice is soft-spoken and quiet.

“Great! Your office is very new, right?”

“Indeed it is.”

The room is bright and friendly, all light wood and bookshelves. It’s a pleasant room to spend most of the day in.

“And judging by your accent, you are…”

“British, yes. Mr Matthews, just leave this matter with me. You will receive the necessary documents shortly.”

“Excellent.” The client stands up and the two men shake hands and then the young man with the untamed red hair and the fashionably ripped jeans leaves the office of his new lawyer, trusting him to take care of his harmless legal problems.

The man formerly known as Mycroft Holmes – Mark Willis now – pinches the bridge of his nose. Work, as dull as it may be, is good. It keeps him occupied.

*****

Sherlock rubs his eyes. He has been staring at his laptop screen for too long, typing away on his manuscript about the misuse of evidence in modern police work. Lestrade, not even mentioning Donovan, would be appalled, he thinks with a smile that dies on his lips the next moment. They will never read it and even if they did, they wouldn’t have any idea that he was the author. It will be published under the name 'Ross Willis'. Ross… Whatever was he thinking? But then – it isn't really worse than Sherlock, is it?

He leans back in his chair and listens to the silence of their penthouse flat. No whining Rosie. No scolding Mrs Hudson. No cases. No adventures.

And then he hears the key in the door and he stands up as if attracted by a magnet. The silence is over for today.

*****

He looks tired, Mycroft thinks. Has worked too hard on his book. But his brain needs to be occupied too after all. He can't sit around waiting for him to come home. He can't work as a detective – way too dangerous. He loathes the sheer thought of working in any kind of company. So he more or less stays in the flat and types away on his keyboard and goes out when the weather is acceptable.

It will not satisfy him forever. Then what? What will he do to shut down his ever-nagging brain? The inevitable suspicion is heart-shattering – that he could turn to the drugs again. And it makes him feel ashamed when Sherlock approaches him with two long steps and embraces him firmly. Mycroft closes his arms around his slim body, pressing him close.

They have been in contact a few times via texting as they always do. Just a casual _'How is your day?_ ' or a _'Thinking of you'_ that never fails to put a smile on Mycroft's face, even during the driest conversation with the dullest client and he knows it does the same to Sherlock even though in his case there is nobody to eye him curiously.

“I brought dinner as agreed,” he says now.

“Fine. Tomorrow I'll cook again.”

For a moment they just smile at each other and then Mycroft lowers his head and kisses him. And that Sherlock is kissing him back, with growing passion, stills stuns him to no end. He debauches in his brother's taste and smell and the warmth of his body against his own until they have to part for air.

They go to the living room, Mycroft's arm around Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's around his waist. They sit down and eat and talk about their respective days. When Mycroft comes back from the kitchen after fetching a bottle of water he gets a glimpse at Sherlock's face before his brother notices him, and seeing him pensive and withdrawn breaks his heart. But then Sherlock looks up and smiles at him and Mycroft returns it and doesn’t say anything.

*****

Sherlock brings their plates and cutlery into the kitchen. They don't have a housekeeper. It's Sherlock who does most of the housework and as tedious as it is, it's kind of… nice? Had anyone in his old life told him that one day he would even consider scrubbing the floor, let alone not being bothered by it, he would have called him crazy. But somehow it adds a kind of normality, a kind of realness to his new life. Their new life…

He knows Mycroft is worried about him. And Sherlock is worried about Mycroft. He has lost so much more. Well, at least in material things and in status. He has left his house behind; there will never be any meetings with the Prime Minister or the Queen anymore. He has given up all his considerable power to become an everyday man. Which he is not and will never be, of course.

When Mycroft left their children's home more than twenty years ago, he went to university and studied law. Of course he has a magnificent degree. Which he can't use now, here in New York City, naturally. But he can use the knowledge as a simple lawyer for simple cases that never draw any attention, as attention has to be avoided by all means, using his new name and false references that will bear any examination. Of course they will. Mycroft Holmes doesn’t do things by half.

Sherlock wonders how long this will be enough for him – being a simple lawyer, one of God knew how many in New York City. He wouldn’t have to work of course. They didn’t leave England with empty hands. They have planned this for quite a long time; enough time to make sure they are rich men in one of the most expensive cities in the world. But Mycroft has always had a fulltime job. He couldn’t endure sitting at home all day. And he never complains.

“You all right?”

Sherlock winces at the question; he hasn't heard his brother coming. “Sure. Just wanted to swill the stuff a bit.”

Mycroft gives him a soft smile. “Fine. Want to watch a film then?”

Sherlock lightly touches his hand with wet fingers. “Yes.”

*****

Mycroft could have slapped himself for choosing such a film. He hadn't heard anything about it and the summary in the television magazine had sounded good but… A spy, fighting his way out of captivity. But then he finds out that his entire family has died in the meantime.

It's not quite like this for them of course. But everybody they know thinks _they_ are dead. Without any exception. It was the only way and they both know it.

Their parents. John Watson. Greg Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. His loyal PA Anthea. They all think they are dead and they will have mourned them and certainly still do. It was the price they had to pay to be able to be together.

It happened a few weeks after Sherrinford. His parents had tried to forgive Mycroft for deceiving them about Eurus and if Eurus had made any progress, they probably would have. But she hadn't. She had stayed unresponsive, their only reaction to the visits of their parents this unnerving, indifferent smile. She had played the violin with Sherlock but she hadn't spoken with him either.

Of course Mycroft had warned their parents from the beginning on, had told them it made no sense to try to connect with her. They had insisted and he had understood this but in the end they had been disturbed, disappointed and frustrated. And they had let him feel it and it had made him feel sad. He had known he deserved their anger but in the end it was not his fault that Eurus was like she was. She had been like this as a child already after all – dangerous, closed up and as far from being a 'normal' human being as she could get…

He would have been a lot sadder though if not at the same time he and Sherlock had become closer and closer. Just as brothers at this time. Sherlock had started to come over twice a week in the evenings, and he had tried to make up for the nastiness of their parents, which had touched Mycroft tremendously, and they had simply talked – about their childhood, Sherlock's memories, his cases, Mycroft's job, music, everything really. And they had both realised that despite their many differences, they did have a lot in common. And little by little, they both had fallen in love. At first they had both been shocked about feelings that society and everybody they knew would condemn should they ever come out. They might even face serving prison time for it. But their feelings for each other had been too strong to not eventually giving in to them. And discovering their sexuality with each other had blown both of them away. There was no way back to being just brothers.

They had been so careful. Any form of intimacy had only happened in the privacy of Mycroft's house. But then Mycroft had visited Sherlock in Baker Street for an actual case and afterwards John Watson had made a few strange jokes towards Sherlock considering his sudden change of behaviour towards Mycroft even though they had tried to play their usual roles. Obviously being so very much in love was not possible to hide completely. As a consequence Sherlock had started to be rather vicious to him in John's or Mrs Hudson's presence and even though Mycroft had known that it was a ruse, it had hurt him on some level and Sherlock had simply hated treating him like this.

And in the end it was Sherlock to suggest they should do the drastic thing and go away together, and the only possibility was faking their deaths.

They planned and schemed for months, and they didn’t meet at all apart from Sherlock sneaking away from 221B during the nights to visit him once or twice a week. These months were nerve-wrecking and horrible and Mycroft almost cried out of relief when they were finally sitting in the plane that would bring them to their new life. But Sherlock was stone-faced and introverted and Mycroft knew all too well why. He would never see his friends again. He wouldn’t see Rosie Watson grow up. He'd had to inflict the pain of losing him on them once more and this time he would not return as there was absolutely no way back.

Of course they had spoken about these consequences and Mycroft had asked him again and again if he was sure, if he really thought he wouldn’t regret leaving his life behind. But Sherlock had always nodded with a grim face _.  'I love you, Mycroft, and I know nobody will understand. There is no other way.'_

And there wouldn’t have been another way and they both are well aware of this and still Mycroft fears that one day Sherlock will hate him for what he has given up and turn against him. Mycroft can live with being a boring lawyer, stripped off his power and never see the country he did so much for again. But he knows he can't live without his brother.

“Shall I turn it off?” he asks him now.

Sherlock, snuggled against his shoulder, smiles sadly. “Perhaps we should just go to bed. I… need you now…”

“Very well.” _I always need you_ , he thinks. He doesn’t say it because he knows Sherlock can read it in his eyes anyway. The times of abhorring sentiment are over for good but since they understand each other easily without words when their feelings are on display, both of them choose to express it nonverbally most of the times.

They kiss and he holds Sherlock tight as if that would make him stay forever.

*****

Mycroft has taken a quick shower, brushed his teeth and shaved his stubble before slipping out of his bathrobe and under the blanket where Sherlock is already waiting for him, having taken care of his own hygiene in another bathroom. Sometimes they shower together but they are both rather private persons and even though they are so close and intimate with each other, sometimes they need this kind of space, especially when neither of them is an exactly giddy mood.

There are times when they joke around and laugh and feel at ease but there are also times, like today, when Mycroft is full of worry and Sherlock seems to be a million miles away. Or more precisely – in London. At least Mycroft is sure he is thinking about what he has lost; Sherlock never talks about it, and he doesn’t ask him. It's cowardice maybe but he doesn’t want to hear that Sherlock regrets what they have done.

He is not surprised when Sherlock immediately pulls him into a firm embrace, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is close to desperation. He gladly indulges him, breathing him in, savouring his smooth body that wraps around him like a precious coat. Sherlock's hands slide over his back and he eagerly reaches for his brother's lush buttocks, grabbing them hard enough to make Sherlock gasp against his throat. His fingers slide between them, finding that hidden spot that is more or less the source of all their problems and all their pleasure. Sherlock's erection is grinding against his thigh and he gladly gives him the friction he is searching for.

He smiles when Sherlock throws away the blanket and straddles his lap after urging him to lie down on his back. He looks gorgeous, hovering over him like this, his blue-green eyes sparkling with lust, his lips damp and swollen from their kissing. His cheekbones are sticking out more than ever before. He has lost weight. And he has lost his curls. In the internet era it is safer to change your appearance when everybody thinks you're dead. They are on the other side of the world now and Sherlock is much less well known in the US, but one picture in the wrong place and hell will break loose. So Sherlock's lovely black curls that Mycroft loved to card his hands through are gone and he's now sporting a modern and very short undercut hairstyle that changes his appearance very much. Mycroft has way shorter hair as well and he wears glasses. Nobody knows him in public, not even in the UK but he has had meetings with people from all over the world after all. It's better to be safe than sorry, as much as Mycroft loathes such clichés.

His long-fingered hands slide over Sherlock's sides, tickling him just a tiny bit, and the smile that appears on his brother's beautiful face is making his day. He looks so young and boyish and happy when he smiles at him like this. Mycroft would do anything to see this smile more often but he knows all he can do is love him and fulfil the needs he can fulfil. He can't give him back what he has lost; it's just the two of them now and it has to be enough. If he believed in God, he would pray that it is.

Then Sherlock stops smiling and bends down to kiss him deeply, their erections grind against each other now and Mycroft wraps his hand around them and his groin twitches when Sherlock moans into his mouth at his touch.

*****

If Mycroft could only see how he is looking now – his blue eyes dazed with lust, his usually pale cheeks flushed, his lips red from their kissing. His brother, attractive at all times, is stunningly beautiful like this.

They have become so close after Sherrinford. Sherlock regretted having sent Lestrade to check on him so the next day he visited him himself. He played the mediator when they were confronting their parents with the truth about Eurus and they were giving his brother a hard time. And when the parents still didn’t entirely forgive him, stupidly blaming for Eurus' choices and personality, he reached out to him to show him that he didn’t resent him anything.

Little by little, they got to know each other better. They not only shared childhood memories that had come back to Sherlock. They discovered that they, in fact, liked each other as persons, apart from the genetic bond they shared. And all at once, Sherlock found his knees to get weak when he met Mycroft. His heart did strange things when his brother smiled at him. And when they touched, most of the times accidentally, he felt something like an electric shock and in the end there was no denying it anymore – he was in love with his big brother, and there was no doubt that Mycroft was also in love with him.

If anything this feeling has become stronger over the past weeks. It's only them now. Sherlock talks to nobody during the day. Sometimes he reads something and is about to tell John about it. He sees a toy in a store window and thinks Rosie might like it. These are the moments that pull him down into a dark hole.

And then there are moments like this.

Their hands and lips are everywhere on the other one's body. Sherlock kisses whatever inch of skin he can reach, returning to Mycroft's mouth every few seconds. He can't get enough of kissing him. His hands are caressing his hairy chest, wrap around his brother's cock, tickle his balls. He is so aroused that his vision is blurry.

Somehow Sherlock ends up facing Mycroft's feet. He rubs his brother's muscular thighs – Mycroft sometimes runs through the Central Park in his lunch breaks and it shows – and his lips close around his brother's large penis in the same moment that his own one disappears in his brother's mouth.

He takes him in completely, having learned quickly that Mycroft loves it when he does that. It's not entirely pleasant to have a thick object in his throat but it does feel great to have this favour returned so he doesn’t mind. And he loves his brother's taste.

They suck each other deftly and even though Sherlock would love to have Mycroft somewhere else, he knows he's already too far gone to change the position now. Perhaps they will love each other again tonight. And even if not – tomorrow is another day.

They both reach their climax in quick succession, and both of them keep the other one in their mouths until the end and beyond, feeling the other one soften slowly.

“Come to me,” Mycroft says then, urging him to turn around to lie next to him, but Mycroft is not content with this and pulls at him until his head is resting on Mycroft's chest.

Sherlock can hear his heart pound under his ear. His hand reaches out to grab Mycroft's, and their fingers intertwine.

“I love you, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, voicing his feelings for the first time in days.

“And I love you, Mycroft. And that's all that matters.” And it is. This is not post-coital sappiness. It's the truth that sometimes just is pure and simple.

“Is it?”

The doubt in his voice hurts Sherlock but he realises it's his own fault. Why has he not told him before?

It does pain him – losing the people he has gone through so much with, especially, of course, John Watson. It has killed him to bring so much hurt over them – again. And this time over all of his friends.

But it is what is. It is time to let them go.

He lifts his head so he can look into his brother's eyes. Into the eyes of the man he has given it all up for. The man who is now his husband in the eyes of the law. They didn’t have an official wedding. Basically Mycroft has faked it all. But that doesn't matter either. Nothing matters except the two of them.

“Listen, brother mine, and listen closely: yes, I was sad about not seeing them again and I will always be on some level. I'm worried you could hate your new occupation and in the end hate _me_ for it, and I know you were thinking the same about me. But for once and for all – it was all worth it. If I had to make this decision again – go on living my usual life with my exciting job and my friends and my city or being with you, far away – I would always choose you.”

Mycroft's eyes are glistening now and Sherlock just has to get up so he can kiss him. They kiss and kiss until Sherlock pulls away. “Please – never doubt that I love you and that the only thing or person in this world I can't lose is you and your love. And I'm so sorry I didn’t tell you this so clearly weeks ago.”

“Sherlock… My Sherlock…” Mycroft doesn’t say more but really – these words say it all.

Whatever they have to face, how difficult it may get sometimes, and they both know Sherlock is grieving in a way and it will come back every now and then – they will face it together, and all the sacrifices they had to make to be together are nothing compared to what they have gained – living their love in peace and safety.

It is worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years have passed since the brothers have faked their deaths and moved to New York and everything is fine. And then something unexpected happens…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have never thought I'd write a second chapter but after the lovely comment and artwork from yukoyaoista, I felt the urge of writing some more for this. Thank you for the inspiration, girl! :)

_'It's not fair'_ is stupidly the first thought that crosses Sherlock's mind when it happens.

And of course it is indeed not fair.

Both of them have been so careful. Each and every day in the two years they have been away now. Sherlock's curls have never been allowed to grow back. Mycroft wears glasses he doesn’t really need and his hair is so short he can't hide his receding hairline at all anymore. No more Belstaff coats for Sherlock; in fact he only wears black from head to toe now, making him look like a pale ghost as he hardly leaves their flat. Mycroft on the other hand spends all summer lunch breaks in the Central Park, jogging or reading, and he is surprisingly tanned, which makes him look very different from when he spent all his day in the cellars of the Cabinet Office or the Diogenes. He still sits in his lawyer's office most of the day of course and very rarely he has to be in court, but he enjoys very much to be outside, always as far away from other people as he can manage, and as far as Sherlock knows, he never talks to anyone apart from his clients or random salespersons or perhaps someone whose dog comes to greet Mycroft as he seems to have an irresistible appeal to tale-waggling furry chaps – and he likes them a lot and pats lots of floppy ears and silky heads.

Sherlock has refused to go on a book-signing tour for both of his bestsellers – that he has published under yet another pseudonym in the end, using the name 'Stephen Rogers' as an ironic nod to 'Captain America' of whom Mycroft is secretly or not so secretly fond to Sherlock's everlasting amusement. His agent has ruffled his hair in despair but Sherlock has just meekly told him he was too shy to face his readers and especially the police officials he must have pissed off with his books about the failures of modern police work…

In short, he has avoided any public attention and there are of course no photographs of Sherlock in the books. Neither of them has ever taken any risks and so it really is far from being fair when on his way to buying some bread he literally bumps now into nobody else than DI Greg Lestrade.

The shock makes him react too slowly. He mumbles an excuse and turns away but not before his eyes have met his old friend's ones. And despite his different looks, Greg recognises him at once. After all he has known Sherlock not only as the dapper detective but also in his dark drug days, sunken-eyed and paler than death.

He can't have Lestrade shouting out his name, he realises with his heart hammering, and he whirls around to him before he can do it. He silences him with a wild look and Lestrade shuts his mouth, his dark-brown eyes are wide in shock and he only mouths his name and then he closes the distance between them and touches Sherlock's arm as if to reassure himself that he's not hallucinating.

There is no way to just leave so Sherlock points at a café across the street, and Greg nods, looking numb and shaken but there is no hint of anger in his eyes so Sherlock knows he is not going to receive a blow like all these years ago when he faced John after returning from Serbia. Lestrade has hugged him back then and he does it again right now, and this time Sherlock closes his arms around him and hugs him back.

*****

They have ordered coffee and donuts just to have something to hold on to. Greg looks every bit as shaken as Sherlock is feeling.

For a long moment neither of them breaks the silence. Silence is a relative term in the loud, crowded café but Sherlock is grateful for the noise. Nobody pays any attention to them, two middle-aged men, sitting at a small round table with stony faces. He is tempted to text Mycroft but he doesn’t touch his phone in the end. His brother will get to know about this soon enough.

If he just hadn't gone out. If he had taken another turn. If he had been fast enough with facing away from him.

Sometimes the universe is really so lazy… Or is it fate? He doesn’t know which concept he despises more.

“I'm attending a conference,” Lestrade finally says. “About problems in the modern police work. There has been a lot of discussion about it lately.”

Sherlock is close to banging his head onto the table top. Yes, because of his books… In the end he can only blame himself for this situation. Why hasn't he taken to write creepy fairy tales for children instead? Cookbooks? A guide how to enjoy housework? Anything but _this_?!

“ _You_ wrote these books, right?” Greg calmly says and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Yep.” What sense does it make to deny it?

“I should have realised that long ago. And they said nothing about the author. Not where he lives, no professional background. I thought it was because he feared to be beaten up but I should have known someone who disses the police like this isn’t exactly afraid of us…”

Sherlock leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on his pink donut. “And all the caution for nothing.”

“Why, Sherlock? Why have you done that?”

Sherlock shakes his head and smiles wryly. “I can't tell you. But this time I won't come back.” He gazes at Lestrade. “Promise me you won't tell anyone that you met me!”

“Not even John? Or Martha? You have any idea how much they've suffered?”

“Nobody! Especially not John… He will never understand…”

“Understand what, Sherlock? You want my silence? Give me an explanation!”

Sherlock snorts. “Playing the blackmailer now, Greg? That doesn’t suit you…”

“No! I…” Greg sighs. “I'm sorry. It's the shock talking I guess. And you even remember my name…”

“We should better part now. Forget that you saw me.”

“Please, Sherlock. Don't do that to me! Tell me why. Is there anyone who threatened you? Someone I could take care of?”

“Nothing like this. You won't guess it in a million years and I'm not going to tell you.”

And suddenly Greg pales. “Your brother! Is he alive, too?”

Again Sherlock reacts too late and gives the truth away. He closes his eyes in terror. Mycroft will kill him…

“He is here, right? You live in New York, both of you?”

“Why are you so bloody intrusive, Greg? I've never taken you for such a guy!”

“And I'd have never thought you would do that to your friends again. And your parents. Because this time they do think you're dead, you and Mycroft.”

“There was no other way. Trust me when I say that.” Sherlock gets up. “And now let me go and erase this meeting from your brain.”

“It must have been love,” Greg says calmly.

Sherlock stands and shakes his head. “Greg…”

“If there wasn't any danger, and which kind of danger should it have been that caused you both to leave it all behind, especially your brother, Mr _Rich-And-Important_ , with all his power and connections. I may be just a common copper but I know what motivates people to commit crimes and do something really drastic. It's fear for life, money, or love. And since we can rule the first two out…”

“Since when can you do deductions?” Sherlock snarls and returns to his chair.

“Since a very good man taught me to.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

He winces when Greg touches his hand. “Is it true then? Was it because of love?”

“Goddammit, Lestrade. Yes! It was about love! You're happy now?”

“Are _you_? Happy?”

Sherlock rubs his face. “Yes. Very. It was hard and sometimes it still is. But yes. I'm happy and it was worth it. I'm sorry I had to do this to you all, Greg. It wasn't an easy decision. But it was the only way.”

Greg nods. “Wow,” he says after a long moment of silence, and Sherlock has no doubt that he has understood all the implications. And accepts them, as miraculous as it is.

“Yes. Wow.”

“Listen… Why don't we go somewhere we can talk for a while? Outside? Before I have to go back?”

“Yes, why not. You can tell me how the others are doing…” And now he pulls out his phone and gives Lestrade a questioning look.

The policeman smiles. “The more not-dead Holmeses the merrier,” he says in his low, raspy voice, and Sherlock, who knows Mycroft will have his lunchbreak in a couple of minutes, fires off a text that will shake his brother as much as the unexpected meeting with his former 'colleague' has shaken him, but somehow he knows it will be okay.

Greg understands.

*****

“You're lucky, you know,” Greg says when they walk over the path of the rather empty part of the Central Park. “Sally Donovan was supposed to accompany me but then she broke a leg.”

“Thank God for small mercies…”

“Yeah… Anderson keeps on saying you're alive, like last time…”

“He's smarter than I thought…”

“I told him he's an idiot…”

“He is…”

They smile at each other in the bright New York sun, and suddenly Sherlock feels an overwhelming joy to be able to do this, to stand with one of his true friends here and talk about the people he's left behind.

He hasn't thought a lot about them anymore, hasn't allowed himself to do it. He has been busy and his relationship with Mycroft has strengthened and become deeper and better with every month. And if he had to choose again and make this decision again, he would always pick the life they have now. He wouldn’t trade in his brother for the life of the consulting detective. Never. And still it's great to see a face of a life that was so meaningful and stressful and hectic and dangerous and exciting.

“How's John, Greg?”

Greg nods. “Okay. He's okay. Now. Has a girlfriend, Nancy. She gets along great with Rosie. She grows and grows.”

“That's what children do.” It does hurt – that he will not see her grow up. One of the big sacrifices he has made.

“Yeah. She's a cheeky little girl. You'd be so proud… Molly has got married.”

“Oh. Great. Good for her.”

“He's a nice guy. An accountant.”

“Exciting…”

“Well, since she couldn’t have you… Better than another Moriarty, huh?”

“A lot,” Sherlock agrees. “And Mrs Hudson?”

Greg sighs. “It has hit her the hardest. Well, and John of course but this woman helped him a lot. Martha still lives in Baker Street but probably she will move to a retirement home soon. She can't look after herself anymore. Let's food burn and stuff.”

Sherlock feels a painful sting of guilt.

“I don't say it's your fault!” Greg protests at once. “She's old, Sherlock. These things happen. But if she knew you're alive…”

“She may never know.”

Both men whirl around and Sherlock's heart beats faster like it always does when he sees his brother/husband.

“Gregory.” Mycroft offers him his hand and Lestrade takes it.

“Wow. You look pretty different. More than him.” He nods at Sherlock.

“Well, in opposite to my brother, I have an everyday face which is easily concealed with glasses and shorter hair. Those cheekbones are a curse.”

Sherlock smiles at his teasing tone and he is surprised about the calmness with which Mycroft has accepted their unexpected visitor. But he has had time to deal with the thought since receiving his text and there is not much he can do anyway. “Yes, I've always thought how common and boring you look,” he pretends to snarl.

Mycroft does not even try to look offended. “So I do. So… Shall we take this bench?”

“Already tired from walking two blocks?” Sherlock teases him.

“Silence, you menace.” Mycroft winks at him. So far he has not touched Sherlock or greeted him properly and he still keeps his distance while they are walking over to the bench but Sherlock can feel the love and protectiveness that radiate from him.

Greg is looking back and forth between them. “Damn. You bicker like you did in the past if not worse.”

“Well, why ever not?” Sherlock says with a wink. “Nothing has changed.” In fact it has taken them quite some time to be with each other like this, to stop walking on eggshells and just be natural with each other and Sherlock loves it how they are now. They can be fake-snarky, tender, passionate, brotherly; they can argue and sit together in silence, reading next to each other, or throw pillows at each other in bed. If he was so inclined, he would say he loves Mycroft more with every passing day.

“I bet _a lot_ has changed in fact.”

They sit down and Mycroft nods. “Everything, basically. That's why we had to leave.”

*****

He doesn’t say more and he doesn’t have to. Greg has understood what is going on very quickly after bumping into Sherlock. Literally bumping into him in the middle of Manhattan. How were the odds?

And now he sits with the men he has mourned on a bench in Central Park and his look switches back and forth between the men he has known as the Holmes brothers. Mycroft, the man he basically only met when there was a problem with Sherlock. He was a bitter-looking, neat, pale man who always looked as if he had a stick up his arse. And now he's tanned, his hair is very short and fashionably styled, the glasses even stress the beauty of his blue eyes; he wears a plain blue suit and he has a neatly trimmed beard around his mouth. He looks stunning, and so does Sherlock, in a completely different way. He has lost weight and his cheekbones are more prominent than ever. His hair is very short and he has an undercut that suits him very well. He is pale though and looks more ethereal than ever. But since Mycroft has joined them, the happiness in his eyes is impossible to miss. He eyes his brother with pride and admiration and very obvious love and… desire. Mycroft is more subtle about it but of course it's there, too.

They haven't left to escape a threat or because they have grown tired of their everyday lives in London. They have faked their deaths and come to the other side of the world because they have fallen in love with each other.

 _Is it worse than death?_ he thinks.  Is it really true that they couldn’t have told the people they trusted? Their own parents? Is it harder to accept an incestuous relationship between your sons than their deaths? What would Molly have said? And Mrs Hudson? Wouldn’t John have given them his support if they only had confided in him?

And what about himself? Well, he doesn’t have to think long about that. He has accepted it now as he can see the love that is engulfing them like a cloud in rainbow colours, and he would have accepted it if they had told him about it two years ago.

But he can see why they haven't risked it. One wrong calculation and everything would have blown up… John… Sherlock's best friend… until he had met Mary and lost her in a situation he blamed Sherlock for, whether that is justified or not is hard to tell. Greg doesn’t have that much contact with him anymore. They meet about every two months in a pub and talk about… Sherlock, mostly, actually. And their lives. Rosie. Everyday problems and joys. Whenever John talks about Sherlock, his eyes get sad. But Greg hasn't forgotten his violence against his alleged best friend. And he can't find it in himself to blame the brothers for not trusting the doctor with their secret. They would possibly have trusted the John of before-Mary. But with all the developments that occurred, he would have been careful too if he had been in their shoes.

And Molly? She had been a very good friend for Sherlock. She had helped him fake his death once after all. But… She had been in love with him for ages. Would she really have accepted his relationship with his brother? Again… He can’t say and he wouldn’t have risked it either.

He could play this game for everybody they know. And apart from himself, he wouldn’t be able to say for sure for a single person how they would have reacted. So yeah, he can see their point.

And still…

“Your funerals… Awful… Your old parents were devastated.”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip and Mycroft touches him for the first time now, reaching for his hand, and Sherlock links it with his one. It's hard to look away from it.

“Of course they were,” Mycroft says calmly. “And neither of us thought 'oh, great, we can hurt all those people, what a joy'. It took us a long time to make this decision and organise everything after all. We could have changed our minds.”

And somehow Greg hears between the lines that he feared that Sherlock would do exactly that.

Sherlock seems to think the same. “No way. But I admit I thought you would cancel it in the last moment. You had so much more to lose. I mean… regarding your status and all. I lost more people. But our parents, Greg… They couldn’t forgive him for Eurus. They may have cried and for sure they were sad but… they would have never accepted our relationship.”

“You didn’t think you could have just hid it forever?”

“I didn’t want to,” Sherlock answers bluntly. “I wanted to be able to smile at him without anybody getting suspicious! And John almost got it even though we tried to behave like before in his presence… I want to be able to do this, Greg.” He lifts Mycroft's hand he is still holding and brushes a kiss onto it, and this innocent gesture full of love touches Greg's heart in an almost painful way. “I just didn’t want to meet him behind closed curtains forever. It's not fair. We're not hurting anyone with our love and still we would have gone to prison if it had come out.”

“Nobody would have betrayed you!”

“Nobody of my friends, probably,” Sherlock says. “But I had a very famous face. A journalist could have figured it out, or one of Mycroft's colleagues. It might have never happened but we couldn’t risk it.”

Mycroft nods. “We debated about it for a long time. And then we jumped, so to speak, because we didn’t see another way out.”

Greg rubs his forehead. “I see. And I understand. Wow. To be in such a situation…”

“We must be sure you won't give us away,” Sherlock says in a low voice. “No drunken talk in the pub with John! No hints, no consoling Mrs Hudson! Especially not in her state of mind!” The thought of her pains him and Greg can see how much he would have liked to reach out to her but of course there is no way.

“I'm not a fool, Sherlock, even though you might have thought I am,” Greg protests. “I won't say a word! Never! But… is there a possibility we could stay in touch? I don't know, through anonymous email accounts? Using totally different names and write in codes? Whatever it takes to make it completely safe?”

“No virtual conversation is ever truly safe,” Mycroft answers softly. “And I have no access anymore to the real safe lines. But if you use another mobile phone that is not registered under your name, or an internet café, and Sherlock can do the same…”

He still doesn’t like the idea and Greg understands. He doesn’t know how it happened but he assumes that even the safety problem aside Mycroft doesn’t exactly want Sherlock to have contact with anyone of his 'previous life'. He is probably deep inside still afraid that Sherlock could want to get his old life back even though even Greg can see that Sherlock doesn’t even think of that.

“Only if Mycroft thinks it's okay,” Sherlock says. “About every six months or so. I can never return to England, Greg, not for a funeral, not for a wedding or to meet anyone. I will never set a foot on British grounds again. So every piece of information can wait.”

“I think if you limit it to this, it should be fine. We can work out codenames now for all the people you might want to inform Sherlock about, and for you two of course,” Mycroft suggests in his quick, practical way.

Greg nods enthusiastically. It's almost like a game, a spy game, and which man doesn’t have a soft spot for that? It won't be much but it's still so much more than he has thought he could have with the man whom he has mourned twice now… “Deal!”

The brothers smile about his enthusiasm, and Greg feels himself smiling back like a fool, and he realises he's insanely happy – about knowing they are alive and about knowing they are happy and in love.

Speaking of that… “Oh, have I mentioned that Donovan now calls herself DI Donovan-Lestrade?”

*****

“I can't believe he's married _Donovan_ of all people!”

Mycroft grins. Sherlock hasn't uttered this for the first time since they have parted from the newly wed Greg Lestrade. Mycroft has not gone back to work and postponed his only appointment with a client to the next morning. And Greg has foregone returning to his conference. They have just talked for a long while and then the DI has left with tears in his eyes. He is a truly good man… “She's not exactly ugly, Sherlock, nor is she dumb.” He pulls Sherlock over to their couch. They have just arrived in the penthouse flat and soon it's time to prepare dinner, but they can talk for a while.

“Fancy her too?” Sherlock looks at him out of narrowed yes.

“Sure. We should switch. Lestrade gets you and I get his lovely wife.” Sherlock snorts and Mycroft kisses him quickly. “How are you?” he asks then after pulling back. “This must have been quite a shock.”

“You can say that again! I just wanted to buy bread… Which I haven't, thanks to this.”

“That's all right. I thought of pasta for dinner.”

“Pasta is good.”

“Are _you_ good?”

“Sure. It was… nice to see him, Mycroft. And we're very lucky he reacted like this.”

“You didn’t tell him our new names…” Mycroft says quietly.

“No. I didn’t. But if he really wants to, he'll find out mine as he knows I wrote those bloody books!”

He has used a pseudonym but Mycroft knows this is a possibility. Not that he worries about it. “It's fine, Sherlock. He has always been on your side.”

“Thank God. I can't even imagine how this would have ended if it had been John instead…”

Mycroft nods. He knows how violently the doctor reacted when Sherlock came back from the dead years ago. He doesn’t really believe John would take it better this time… “But you would like to see him again. Him and his daughter.” He never uses the girl's name.

Will he ever truly get over his jealousy regarding the Watsons? Not only John but also his wife Sherlock has risked so much for. And this baby… Mycroft has always refused to meet her. Irrationally, he has always feared Sherlock would choose John and build a family with him and the girl. Stupid as he knows this is. Sherlock has never wanted John that way, let alone the other way around. But he can't help it.

Sherlock knows that of course. “I know I can't, Mycroft. And I'm fine with it. I really am. I enjoyed talking to Greg and it will be nice to stay in touch in the way we've agreed. But my life is here now, with you, and that’s what I want! I don't want my old life back! And I've long made my peace with never seeing them again. I have all I need.”

“Your old brother, the boring lawyer?” Mycroft smiles at him.

“Exactly. The one who will take me to bed now.”

“Now? What about dinner!”

“Fuck dinner. I feel another sort of hunger now.”

“I see. Well, we can't let you starve.”

“Good big brothers don't do that.”

“And I am a good big brother.”

“And the best husband this side of the universe.”

Is there a better compliment?

*****

Sherlock is in heaven. Or more precisely, he is in his brother's arms but for  him that's basically the same thing. Mycroft's long left leg is slung around him from behind, and he is taking Sherlock in a sweet, slow, steady rhythm and Sherlock is moving with him, meeting his thrusts, feeling as ultimately connected with his man as he can get.

They both need this now. Mycroft just can't completely shake off his fear about Sherlock regretting their choice. And Sherlock loves the reassurance of their love, their desire - the reason for them coming here, for leaving it all behind, which he has not regretted for a single day.

He has thoroughly enjoyed talking to the man he has grown to trust and like a lot in all those years he has solved cases with him. Greg has been one of the few people Sherlock has completely trusted. But he wouldn’t have trusted him with the knowledge of his secret relationship without being forced. Lestrade is a representative of the law after all, and even though Sherlock was almost sure he would not give them away, he wouldn’t have risked confiding in him just as he wouldn’t have with anyone else he knew. Greg has just proven to be a really good friend they could indeed trust unconditionally, but still Sherlock thinks it has been right to not talk to him about it back then.

And now he is even married to Sally Donovan, the woman who has always mistrusted Sherlock. They have made their peace with each other in the end but still it's irksome to imagine Greg with her.

And if Mycroft's hand wasn't wrapped around his cock and stroking him in the rhythm of his thrusts, Sherlock would have probably lost his erection at the image of them together…

He shakes the thought off to be able to just enjoy his brother's closeness and sweet efforts, and after some more intense minutes of being fucked, he can feel his orgasm building, and he reaches around to rub his brother's hole, making him moan into his ear, and when he floods Mycroft's stroking hand and the duvet with his seed, Mycroft is flooding him, spending deep inside of him, and in this moments of sheer bliss, London seems as far away as never before. Sherlock doesn’t regret it and even though he misses John and Rosie and Mrs Hudson and Molly, and even his parents, no matter how thoroughly they have failed his brother, he knows he is exactly where he wants and is meant to be.

He turns around to face Mycroft, who has slipped from him, and they look into each other's eyes; no barriers, no shields, no pretending, and all he sees and all he knows Mycroft sees is love and devotion, and nothing else matters.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Worth It (Cover Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620890) by [yukoyaoista](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukoyaoista/pseuds/yukoyaoista)




End file.
